


Every Plan Is A Tiny Prayer To Father Time

by ibroughtyoumybullets



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: 9 to 5 jobs, Alternate Universe - Working Class, M/M, Modern Era, Monotony, Self-Discovery, conformity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibroughtyoumybullets/pseuds/ibroughtyoumybullets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke's life was full of colorless conformity. Day in, day out. Nothing new. </p>
<p>That is, until he meets Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Plan Is A Tiny Prayer To Father Time

**Author's Note:**

> This story is mainly inspired by my fear of working a 9 to 5 job and doing nothing with my life.   
> I was trying to do different things with my writing style, and in this story I tried to write a bit more like Chuck Palahniuk, since he's one of my favorite authors.   
> The writing is a lot more blunt. I can see how people may not enjoy this, but for me, it's fun to read and fun to write.   
> The story is from Luke's point of view.   
> Title credits go to What Sarah Said by Death Cab For Cutie

One thing that I have noticed in the years that I have spent on this planet is that everyone is obsessed with time.

Whether it's complaining about someone being late, or scheduling your day to the exact minute, or staring at a clock in wait of some big event; we are all a slave to these numbers on our walls and in our phones.

Every person spends time waiting for things to happen. They get excited over the turning of small arrows on a cheap, plastic circle. They are in constant lust of what is yet to come.

I am one of those people. Those people whose minutes are so meaningless that they're just _dying_ for them to pass.

My whole life has been full of waiting. When I was younger, I waited for Christmas and I waited for my birthday. When I was almost a preteen, I yearned to be an adult, so I waited to grow up. When I was a teen, I waited for love and for trust, and for everything else that never came my way.

Now, as an adult, I'm just waiting for the clock to strike five so I can finally get out of this office that's been keeping me hostage.

It is currently 4:47. I'm thinking about nostalgia. Everyone misses who they used to be, but at the same time, everyone is counting on the ability to move on. We're so obsessed with the future that we never pay attention to the present, and once the present is gone, we yearn for it, and we give it the name of "The Past". We find comfort in the past and we find adventure in the future, and we're too damn stupid to think about what is good _now_.

I've been working this job or three years. My coworkers have came and gone, but it's not like I care. I don't let myself get attached to the people here. I see them come to work with smiles on their faces. They go about their day with grins and soft smiles and positivity. I can't be acquainted with anyone who is okay with this life, with this monotony.

When I was younger I always told myself that I would never work a 9 to 5 office job. I told myself that I would do big things.

There I go again, living in the past. I'm acting as if my image of who I was before will be my salvation.

God, it's 4:59. Today has been a wonderful day, and I've been stuck in a cubicle.

I'm so trapped.

\--------------------------

Yesterday, the coffee machine in the office broke. That means that I have to go buy some expensive-ass coffee from a dumb little café. I don't even like coffee. I just need caffeine.

When I opened the door of the shop, it made that god-awful jingling noise. The aroma of coffee beans hit me like a freight train. I hate coffee shops.

I ordered a black coffee from the peppy barista and sat in a booth in the far back corner of the shop as soon as I got it. I sat on an uncomfortable chair and watched the world go by around me. I watched people walk or jog by the shop. I watched the cars stuck in the street, like big metal cows. I watched the over-excited café workers and I watched the customers. And then, I watched him.

He looked like the type of guy that I would love to hate. That type of guy that I would waste my time on despising, just to prove a point. Just to prove that I'm better than him. He looks like the type of guy that I would stay up at night over, thinking about how much he annoyed me. He looks like the type of guy that I would love to get angry, just so I could put a smirk on my face and make him even more livid.

His hair was red. He had an eyebrow piercing. He had tattoos. He was wearing a light blue dress shirt and black slacks, with nice black shoes on his feet.

I also have piercings and I have tattoos. I am also wearing my best work attire.

And I would love to hate him because he is exactly like me.

\--------------------------

My cubicle is six feet long on every side. It's painted pure white. A filing cabinet sits on the left side of my work space. An old, outdated computer sits on my pure white desk. My office chair is old and uncomfortable. A small, overflowing trash can that is filled with pages of unfinished thoughts sits to the right of me. It's the perfect place to pretend that my life doesn't suck as much as it actually does. It's the perfect place to forget my troubles, even though this small, colorless box may just be the cause of all of them.

The building is just as boring as my single cubicle. The people are just as boring as the building. There is no escape from the solid white floors, walls, ceilings, smiles. It feels like I'm in an asylum.

God, it's driving me insane.

There's so much beauty in the world. There's mountainous landscapes and soft flowing rivers and pastel prairies. There's art museums and concert halls. There's monuments and statues. There's beautiful cities, beautiful people. There's so much beauty, and I'm stuck with this. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White. White.

I'm dying for some color.

That's when he comes into the picture. He walks with confidence down the rows of small boxes that house all of the slightly irritated, caffeine-addicted workers. He has a bright smile on his face, and it doesn't look bleached and processed like the ones of the other workers. He's got this essence of positivity, and he sits right down in the empty cubicle next to mine.

I said before that I would love to hate this man. It's still true. I would relish in just the idea of aggravating him.

He's just like me.

I stare at him longer. He's staring back. He's got a smug smile on his face. God, he looks like an asshole. I'm staring at him, and he's loving every second of it. I'm staring at him, and I'm hating every moment. I'm staring at him. I'm staring at him. I'm staring at him, and now I've figured it out.

He isn't just like me.

He isn't like me because he's better than me.

He was distraught by the lack of color. It was driving him mad, too. You can tell. He was growing tired of seeing white wherever he turned. He was fed up of the monotony that he faced every day.

He did something that I have never been brave enough to do.

He brought his own color.

\--------------------------

 When I got to work today, there was a muffin and a cup of coffee on my desk, waiting for me. The coffee was hot, so whoever put it there must have been here not too long ago. There was a note that was placed underneath the muffin. It had someone's messy scrawl on it, and it said two simple words.

"You're cute."

There was no signature. There didn't need to be.

I smirked to myself and took a bite out of the muffin. It was blueberry. I loved blueberry muffins. I sipped my coffee. It was black.

"Looks like you've got a secret admirer," he said. I knew it was him who said it, because he talked with more enthusiasm than anyone else in the building. He was always loud, and he was always sure of what he had to say. He's hard to miss.

"Yeah, look's like it," I replied.

We were both lying.

It's no secret.

He may hope that it is, he may think that it is. I'm sure he wants to keep his pride and believe that I'm completely dumbfounded over who would give me such a nice little present and not give themselves credit for it.

The thing is, when there's such an absence of color in your life, you try to appreciate all of it that you can.

Why he would think that I wouldn't notice the strand or two of red hair on my desk, well, I don't know.

He isn't fooling me.

I could play the part of a foolish romantic comedy character. I could act like I don't know. I could make-believe that I'm clueless about who gave me this treat and flirt with him like I belong in some movie that hits the big screen on Valentine's Day.

But I'm not going to be that person.

And that's why I turn to him after I take the last sip of my coffee and I say, "You're pretty cute, too."

\--------------------------

He's worked here for at least two weeks now and I don't know his name. This is usually normal for me. I don't know the name of a single one of my coworkers. I just want to know his name. Something about not knowing his name infuriates me so much.

He winks at me while I'm trying to do work and he buys me food when I don't bother to actually use my lunch break to eat. He holds the door for me when I walk into the building every morning and he holds the door for me when I leave. He's kind. He's such a nice person.

He would be so easy for me to hate. I could blame him for all of his faults, simply because I'm envious that he's better than me. I could tear him down to improve my own confidence. I could be an asshole. I could break him.

I could.

I won't.

I always try to block people out of my life, but here he is. I'm letting myself think about him. I'm letting my imagination run wild, like I would when I was just a little kid. I'm giving myself hope.

I'm not sure if he's killing me, or if he's saving my life.

I've stopped staring at the clock for the last thirty minutes of my work day. I'm still not doing work during that period of time, but I'm not staring at the clock anymore. I've been starting to dread my day less and less.

I've been drinking less coffee.

All because of this red haired punk kid who somehow worked his way into a business setting.

God, what has my life become.

\--------------------------

His name is Michael. Michael Clifford.

I heard the boss yell at him this morning. The boss is an asshole. He's forty-something and he's bitter about never doing anything with his life. He's bitter about never finding love and he's bitter about never getting a good job and he's bitter about never seeing the world and he's everything that I never want to be.

It's too bad that I'm on the road to becoming him, exactly him.

Anyway, I heard the boss yelling at Michael. He was saying something about how Michael was a lazy-ass punk who never grew up enough to be in the real world. He said that Michael wasn't responsible enough to hold a job. He said that Michael couldn't just start working for a business for two weeks, and then say that he's quitting the next week.

I heard Michael say that he had better things to worry about than his "irresponsibility".

When he sat down on his uncomfortable desk chair in his cubicle that was identical to mine, he looked at me. He looked at me straight in the eyes. His eyes were emerald. They were shocking. They added color to the pure white world around us.

"You don't want to be here, either," Michael said. He leaned back in his chair a little bit, and he stared at me.

He was right. I never want to be here. Except for when he's here, too. I'm just never brave enough to admit it.

"I know," I said quietly. It was weird to have him, practically a stranger, telling me the things that I don't have the courage to say.

"Why don't you leave?" he questioned. His head turned to the side and he continued giving me his pure emerald stare.

"I don't have anywhere to go. I don't have anyone to go with," I told him. I wanted to leave. I wanted to pack my bags and never see this city again.

It's not that easy.

"Come with me. I'm going to Baltimore, Maryland. I'm going to try to do some solo performances, just me and my guitar, and work at a bar or something while I'm at it. I'm going to try to live a bit. I've been going from job to job, trying to find one that I can seem to enjoy, but I can't stand having one thing for too long. I need spontaneity, and I've been watching the way you stare out the windows. You want it, too. Come with me," Michael rambled. His words were jumbled together and his eyes darted across my face, looking for answers.

"You don't even know my name, Michael," I said. I so badly wanted to run away with him. I wanted a world full of color. It all seemed so easy.

Why am I denying this?

"Your name is Luke. That's what was written on your coffee cup when I saw you in the café before work on my first day. I thought you were cute, so I remembered your name. It was a nice surprise to see that you worked here, too. Now, since I know your name, will you come with me?" Michael said with a small smile. He looked hopeful.

"Sure, Michael. I'll come with you. I need an adventure," I said with a sigh. I was secretly cheering on the inside.

"It's a plan," Michael said with a large smile on his face.

\--------------------------

The boss wasn't happy when I told him that I was quitting. He said that I was his most reliable employee and I had been for the past three years. He told me to not give up on the company. He told me that if I stayed, I could be promoted to some high rank. He said that I could do so many great things.

I told him what I've wanted to say for years. I told him that this company was toxic. I told him that it was driving me insane to work here. I told him that I hate my job and I hate this company with it's white floors and white walls and white ceilings and white smiles. I told him that I hated that damn clock on the wall for making me long for times and places that were so out of reach.

He said that I was being stupid.

I told him to fuck off.

The plane tickets were already booked. My bags were already packed.

April 5; save the date.

I'm finally going to live.

\--------------------------

I've decided that even if I was homeless, starving, cold, and beaten, this life would still be so much better than the conformity of the life I lived before.

I am no longer a slave to those numbers on the wall; in my phone.

I am no longer scheduled and precise.

I can be reckless and I can make decisions on a whim. I can think for myself and live the way that I want to live.

God, I'm alive.

Michael helped show me how to break free from the life that I saw as normal. He helped me become myself when I had lost the sense of who I was. He helped me find who I wanted to be.

My old self, my bitter, 9 to 5 businessman self; he would have loved to hate Michael.

Now, I just love him.

There's so much more to life, now that I'm not restrained by a clock.

It's nice to wake up in the arms of someone I love, without worry of a beeping alarm clock and a schedule to set.

It's nice to not worry about deadlines and paperwork.

I spend my time writing, and Michael spends his time performing. We've got all that we need. We're so happy.

Throughout my whole life, I've been praying on the future to bring something great, and I've been relying on the past to help me through until that can happen.

I'm finally living in the present, and it's exactly where I want to be.


End file.
